It had been seven months since Mujin became your world. Seven months since a simple walk back from a late university lecture turned into him stepping out of the shadows of a side street, offering a ride when the rains were coming in, and somehow—without either of you meaning to—it became everything.
Seven months of him appearing at your door at ungodly hours because he “was in the area,” seven months of his jacket draped over your shoulders before you even realised you were shivering. Seven months of him learning softness and you learning danger.
Tonight. A quiet dinner reservation he’d booked without telling you, just sending a short text an hour earlier: “Dress nice.” Nothing more. The definition of him.
You’re standing in front of the mirror, adjusting the outfit you chose—a shorter black dress, elegant—then you heard the door close gently behind you
He steps closer, slow, deliberate. His reflection meets yours in the mirror: black dress shirt, sleeves half-rolled, hair slightly undone from the long day. Eyes that never soften for anyone but you.
Something cold touches your bare upper back. His fingers. Holding a thin, delicate necklace you didn’t even see him bring in.
He lifts your hair to one side with a single slow stroke, fingers grazing the nape of your neck. His touch stays longer than necessary Then he brings the chain around you, the metal brushing over your collarbones.
His breath warms the shell of your ear as he fastens it. The clasp clicks. His fingertips stay there—motionless—. He studies the way the necklace sits against your skin.
Then he lowers his head slightly, lips near your ear. His voice is low.
“Yeah… that’s perfect.”
His hand slides from the back of your neck to your shoulder, thumb drawing a slow line along your collarbone—right beside where the necklace rests. A silent branding you didnt notice.
His eyes lift to the mirror again, locking onto yours. The look is unmistakable. Not subtle. Not polite. A man looking at what’s his.
“This suits you,” he murmurs. “Exactly how I wanted.”